


Together in the great unknown (never gonna take us alive).

by Alexander_Slamilton



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, John is a mess of self hatred, John is pretty depressed tbh, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, alexander is sick, angsty, angsty then fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9120787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Slamilton/pseuds/Alexander_Slamilton
Summary: " “Alexander? You with me?” His saviour asked.“Laurens? My Laurens?” The words were slurred, but they were all Alexander could manage at that moment in time.“Aye,” a hand ran through his hair, and he was cradled against strong chest with a wildly thumping heart. “I’m here, are you with me?”“Yes, yes, always and forever,” Alexander breathed against the material of John’s felt wool coat.  "Alexander is hurt, John realises that he loves him, only when he is the closest to losing him.





	

Heady and frantic, the battle swelled around him, carrying him on wave upon wave of men and guns. Suddenly, as though carried on a high wave, he was pitched forward, in to the wriggling mass of bodies; light was gone. His horse landed on top of him, crushing all the air from his lungs, he felt his ribs snap and tasted iron. Pain shot, bright white and vengeful through his broken body. It was the end, twenty years of avoidance; Death’s scythe had found him, here, after all, after everything. Yet, despite the certainty of death, his body refused to send him peacefully into the good night. He couldn't seem to die, not now. There was something he needed to do before Death brought him under his wing. 

 

Shouts rang out, and blood, hot, wet, and metallic sprayed over him staining his shirt red. He could smell the iron in it as it wafted up and in to his nostrils. Bodies were pressing in on him from every side, crushing him, making nigh impossible to breath. He gasped for breath as his lungs burnt, as though they would melt flesh and bone and abscond from his body altogether. It seemed hopeless, there was no way out of the crush, no end to the chaos; his thread was almost cut. Daylight was hidden from him, from where he lay; all he could see were the boots of men as they walked over him and the other bodies, all of them dead, he felt more like a spectre than a man. Then warmth flooded him and there was nothing but the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of the writhing mass of men. Light flooded over him, washing him in delicious warmth; flooding his worn out senses, caressing him in life. 

 

“Alexander? You with me?” His saviour asked. 

 

“Laurens? My Laurens?” The words were slurred, but they were all Alexander could manage at that moment in time. 

 

“Aye,” a hand ran through his hair, and he was cradled against strong chest with a wildly thumping heart. “I’m here, are you with me?” 

 

“Yes, yes, always and forever,” Alexander breathed against the material of John’s felt wool coat. 

 

“Stay with me now, then, do not sleep,” John said, carding his fingers through Alex’s hair, combing the debris of battle out from it. 

 

“I couldn’t breath, John, I couldn’t breath,” Alexander mumbled, pressing himself further into John’s embrace, seeking the warmth and vitality the other man possessed. 

 

“I saw your horse shot from under you, I feared you’d died when I got to where you fell and saw neither you or the beast,” John allowed Alexander to snuggle in further, wrapping his arms around him. 

 

“Where are we? How long did you drag me for?”

 

“In the woods at the top of the hill, we’ll rest here, until we can catch up to the army.” 

 

“The General will notice when we’re not with the army, the dead or the wounded,” Alexander sighed, “perhaps we should rejoin the fray?”

 

“Speak the truth, do you think you could fight right now? Do you think you could make a world of difference to the fate of our brothers?” 

 

“Nay,” Alexander admitted, “I do not think my presence would make much difference.”

 

“Aye, now, if we did join the fight, I would be far too worried about you to do much fighting,” John said, burying his nose in to Alexander’s hair. 

 

“I don’t see why so,” Alex said, “I am not so important.” 

 

“Hush, rest, we’ll be undisturbed if we’re quiet,” John did not take his fingers from Alexander’s hair, tugging him further on to his lap.

 

The sounds of battle still echoed from the valley below them, gun shots and canon blasts were the soundtrack to their rest. A horses squeal ricocheted off the valley walls, bouncing its way into John’s ears before it was cut off abruptly. He could hear shouts and screams from the men as he shifted uncomfortably amongst the leaves and the dirt. John decided to tempt fate and lean over the ridge that was currently concealing them; he could see Washington chasing the redcoats from the field. He could see the continental officers all done up in blue and gold, the threads in the epaulets reflecting the sun. Smoke covered most of the rest of the field, as it blasted from the guns; he could see the sparks as they flew off the flintlocks. Finally the retreat sounded and the British were gone. 

 

“Come, it’s time to rejoin our brothers,” John shook Alexander, pushing the smaller man off him and on to his feet. 

 

“Did we win?”

 

“Aye, looks like it,” John grinned as Alex swayed slightly before he stood too, slinging an arm round Alexander’s shoulders, “I’ve got you, can you walk?” he asked. 

 

“I think so, I’ll be fine,” Alex said, still swaying on his feet as they took unsteady steps together. 

 

“Right, onwards,” John pointed his sword, in his free hand, down the hill into the valley. 

 

“We’re camping here tonight, General Washington wants a report on his desk by midnight when the courier leaves.”

 

“Thank you, Major Tallmadge, does The General wish to see either of us before supper?” John nodded at the Major. 

 

“He didn’t say, only told me to tell Hamilton of the report,” Tallmadge said, then with a frown, he looked at Alex, “is he okay, Lieutenant Colonel?” 

 

“I can talk, you know,” Alexander said, fixing Ben with a look that would not have been comical were he not swaying alarmingly.

 

“Oh, yes, he’s fine,” John said as Alex leaned ever more heavily on his shoulders, “I suppose we’ll have to meet with him, then, thanks again Ben,” John smiled, gripping Alex’s waist tighter. 

 

“No problem, sir. If there’s anything I can do,” Tallmadge inclined his head and walked over to his dragoons, all of whom had come through the battle unscathed. John watched as Ben and his friend Lieutenant Brewster embraced, the shorter man gripping the back of Ben’s head, pulling him closer. 

 

“Right, well, to His Excellency,” John continued to help Alex to walk as they made their way slowly to Washington’s tent. 

 

“You’ll tell him I am okay, right?” Alexander turned to John, he was paper white and shaking slightly. 

 

“Uh, of course, Alexander, of course I will,” John smiled weakly, dragging him; taking most if not all his weight. 

 

Washington’s tent was set up in the middle of the field, there were two guards outside it holding their muskets at attention. They both bowed slightly as Alexander and John walked through the tent flaps. 

 

“Ah, both of you made it through then?” Washington said, scarcely looking up from his map. 

 

“Yessir, though Colonel Hamilton’s horse was shot from underneath him, sir; he hit his head,” John told The 

General.

 

“It was nothing, sir, I can function perfectly well,” Alex waved a hand in front of him, though Washington instead turned to John.

 

“Is he lucid enough to write a report?” Washington asked.

 

“I am fine,” Alex said, but the other two ignored him; the trickle of blood, though it was dried, was enough to tell Washington he was not fine. 

 

“I fear not, sir,” John sighed. 

 

“I see, and, has the doctor seen him?” John and Alexander now had Washington’s full attention; he surveyed them over the map, his hand poised in position above one of the model garrisons. 

 

“I do not need a doctor, I am perfectly well,” Alex grumbled, as he swayed where he stood; he was paler than John had ever seen him, his eyes were glassy and he was even more unsteady on his feet. 

 

“Not yet, sir, we reported straight to you, sir,” John said, standing as straight as he could whilst still holding most of Alex’s weight.

 

“Then he should be seen by the doctor immediately, wait here; I’ll ask one of the men to send for him,” Washington moved round the table to the entrance of the tent.

 

“I don’t need a doctor!” Alexander said even as he pitched backwards, fainting. 

 

“Sir! That’s really not necessary, I’ll take him to the doctor,” John started, catching Alexander and carrying him like a child in his arms. 

 

“Nonsense, besides, I wish to have this report done; it would be easier to keep you both here. Sit down Lieutenant Colonel Laurens, fetch a quill and a parchment and make a start,” Washington said before he spoke to one of the men standing guard outside of the tent. 

 

“Yessir,” John sat at the chair, after dropping Alexander in the one opposite him, pulling a quill and ink out. His eyes flicking to Alex every now and then. 

 

“The doctor is on his way,” Washington said, dropping himself in the chair next to Alexander, “what happened, my boy?” 

 

“I couldn’t see, not really, I was riding towards the enemy when I couldn’t see him anymore. I assumed he’d been shot; so I rode over to where I last saw him. He was on the ground, sir, I thought he was dead,” John took a shaky breath, “I got off my horse, checked he was still breathing, and dragged him away from the battle. We sat atop the valley sides until the battle was over, using the trees as cover.” 

 

“I see, as your commanding officer I am disappointed that you willingly left the battle, I should have you shot for desertion. But, as a man who cares deeply for my military family, and a commander who knows where we would be _without_ Alexander and your help, I know that that would be a folly.” Washington said, the look in his eye was not angry per se, though John had no sincere desire to see it again. “You must not let your feelings for Alexander stop you in the line of duty, my boy.”  


“My… my feelings, sir?” John was confused. 

 

“Ah, perhaps some time for introspection is warranted. Now, on to the rest of the report.” 

 

“Yessir,” John said quietly, nodding as he listened to Washington speak, in low deliberate tones. 

 

***

 

The doctor came in, pronounced Alexander fine, just concussed with broken ribs. He had helped John carry the still unconscious Colonel to their shared tent. John had had his duties done before sunset, in an effort to do as Washington had told him; that was why he was currently sitting in the same spot he’d sat with Alexander a few hours earlier. Rays of gold light streamed through the gaps in the trees, lighting the forest on fire. John sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms folded over them. He gazed at nothing in particular. He was almost entirely caught up in himself. 

 

There had been only a few people in his short twenty two years on Earth that had made a particular impression upon him. Not even his wife and child (he hardly knew the girl, he supposed she’d be about a year or so old now) featured in the list. First was his brother, he could still his fat, bloated face staring blankly up at him; he’d left for Europe after his death. Next was Francis Kinloch, the man he thought would be his soulmate; he could remember the desperate loneliness he had felt after Kinloch had sent him that letter. He could remember the anger, the pain crushing him; the desire he had had to do something to hurt the other man. He had wanted to cause Kinloch as much pain as he had caused John to feel.

 

Then, then, there was Alexander. So _alive._ Vital in a way John knew he was not; yet every time he touch Alexander he felt some of the same vitality rub off on him. Alexander, wonderful, intelligent; beautiful Alexander. There was no doubt that Alexander was beautiful. Small, willowy, skinny; yet beautiful. Cheekbones that stood out from his face, pointing attention to eyes that were so gripping, John had trouble looking away from them when they caught his. Alexander was a bolt of lightning and John was struck each time they touched. More so than he had been with Francis. Alexander was a whirlpool that John didn't mind being pulled into. He would willingly let Alexander consume him as a wildfire did a forest. He was a planet and Alexander was his sun. Not that he knew exactly how Alexander had drawn him in so completely. He’d need to think further to come to that realisation. Though for now, he one thing, he was utterly, completely in love with Alexander Hamilton. 

 

John stood, dizziness over taking him with head rush, he gasped for air. _How could he let this happen again? How could he just sit back and ruin himself? He had a wife and child, oh God,_ he thought, _Martha._ He didn’t want this affliction. He didn't want this life. _Why couldn’t he love his wife?_ He let his eyes wander to his sword. It would be easy. Simple, really. He ripped his eyes away from the blade. _No. Not like this. Not helpless on a hillside. That’s a cowards’ way out._ He ran his fingers through his hair, yanking the lank strands, before scrubbing over his eyes. He wished, still, he could pray and everything would go away. But he knew he could not. He didn't notice the tears that streamed down his face until they dripped in to his hand. He turned his head to the darkening sky, there was no moment of clarity, no religious experience, no peace. God had deserted him. There was no hope. Inconsolable. There was no promise of light after this long night. 

 

He turned and walked back to camp. Leaving nothing but an empty hillside behind him. His feet crunching leaves under his heavy black boots. The moon halfway through the sky. 

 

Alexander was still asleep when John got into the tent, he was curled into a tight ball, though his hair was spread all over the pillow. Every now and then, he made small snuffling noises, his nose crinkling as he burrowed down into the nest of blankets (that included John’s own). John stopped dead. He tried to look away, but he was transfixed. It was as though Alex had wound John around his little finger without even trying. Like John was a fish and Alex a net. He walked in, and sat heavily at his desk, cradling his head in his hands. 

 

“John, mon ami?” Lafayette poked his head around the flap of the tent. 

 

“Oui?” John.

 

“You look… ah… troubled, my friend,” Lafayette whispered, moving into the tent and sitting down on John’s bed. 

 

“I just…” John gestured aimlessly, flailing his arms around loosely at his side. 

 

“I see,” Lafayette nudged John with his shoulder, “perhaps you should tell him?”

 

“No! No, I couldn’t. He’d hate me.” John finished with a sigh.

 

“I doubt that very much, you know,” Lafayette said, sagely nodding his head, a large grin spreading over his face. 

 

“Ha!” Was all John could muster.

 

“Lafayette, The General wants you in his rooms, says it can’t wait.”

 

“I’ll be right there, thank you Meade,” Lafayette stood and clapped John on the back, “these things we think are so important in the moment often have a way of sorting themselves out of their own accord.”

 

“Thanks, Laf, but I don’t think they will, this time,” John sighed, watching the frenchman retreat the way he came. 

 

In the corner of the low-lit tent there was a small mirror, it was barely enough for Alexander to see himself in properly, so John had little hope. He took it from its perch on top of a rarely used table and placed it on his desk, he had the strange urge to examine his face. He took himself in. His hair, scruffy and a little dirty hung out of its queue at the sides, there were more than a few leaves and twigs stuck in there, he knew. His face was splattered with blood and freckles; he’d need to wash tonight or the blood would be ever harder to scrub off, particularly because they lacked soap. He could see the way his eyes drooped, slightly downward; though their colour was a still elusive, John just couldn't place it, perhaps the candles were messing with his perception. His cheekbones had their own shadows, the way the candles were angled made the hollows of his cheeks stand out. His lips, were, well lips; they were full and pink and curved, with a dip in the middle. He could see the reason a lot of the ladies he’d met had always giggled at him and batted their eyelashes; yet he couldn't figure out what was wrong with him, why the ladies he’d met didn't make his heart flutter. Why did Alexander set him aflame? Why had Francis? 

 

“…John…” his name was whispered from Alex’s bed.

 

“Alex? Are you okay?”

 

“… John- I-“ Alexander turned over, still asleep, his mouth moving though no more words came out of it. 

 

The light cast shadows in the sunken hollows of Alex’s cheeks, showing just how little food they had been able to scrounge for in the past few weeks. John turned and went back to the chair by the bed; he studied Alexander, as if the sleeping man would wake and give him the answers to what he asked himself. That was impossible, however, Alexander would not be able to answer these questions; only John himself had the answers this time.

 

“John, I’m sorry,” Alexander groaned, he seemed to be in considerable distress, moving and thrashing about, “don’t hate me.” 

 

John could barely hear those last three words, muttered from Alex’s mouth like they had been forcibly drawn from him, pulled out by some form of torture. John panicked, he didn't really know what to do, he settled on drawing Alexander in his arms and rocking him back and forth like a child, even as Alex moaned and sobbed in to his chest. 

 

“It’s okay. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” John said, though he didn’t know why Alexander was crying so, in what was supposed to be a peaceful sleep. 

 

The minutes he spent, sitting on the camp cot, Alexander clutched in his arms, slowly turned in to hours; hours drifted past him, not touching him; he could not feel their passing, yet still he sat, holding his best friend in his arms like a precious stone. John knew the moon would be high in the sky by now, its cold white light shining upon the camp; lighting the world in grey and silver. 

 

“John?” Alexander shifted, his eyes opened, startling John out of his half-sleep.

 

“Alexander, you’re awake,” John felt a weight lift off him, seeing the colour of Alex’s eyes again.

 

“It seems, so,” Alex nodded, smiling slightly, “why am I being cradled like an infant?” 

 

“You were thrashing about and sobbing like a broken man, I didn't know what else to do. So I took you in my arms, like I did after the battle and you quietened; then, I suppose I fell asleep or something,” John blushed red but made no move to separate himself from Alex.

 

“Hmm, it is warmer than being alone,” Alexander said, tentatively snuggling further into John, who if he was not already dead, died a little more. “What was I sobbing about?”

 

“You were… you-“ John paused uncomfortably, cheeks turning more red. 

 

“Yes?” Alex raised an eyebrow.

 

“Don’t you remember, I mean, you were the one dreaming,” John tried.

 

“I never remember my dreams,” Alexander shook his head.

 

“You were sobbing _my_ name and apologising to me, for something and asking me not to hate you. As if I could ever hate you,” John added, running his hand through his hair, shaking the shaggy mess in front of his eyes. “Why were you asking for my forgiveness?”

 

“I have no idea, perhaps I made a stupid mistake and told you something that made you hate me,” Alex shrugged, suddenly a little more distant than he had been.

 

“What could you do to me to make me hate you?” John scoffed, “you could murder me here and I would probably roll over and thank you for it.”

 

“Ha!” Alex snorted, “no I couldn’t, you’re at least twice my weight. Besides, I’d never murder you.”

 

“Wow, thanks,” John said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. 

 

“Truly. If I did murder you, I’d have no one in the whole army. No one like you, at least,” Alexander sobered up, looking up in to John’s eyes. 

 

“Then, I suppose I’m safe, for now,” John huffed, though the words came out quieter and more meaningful than he had originally intended.

 

“Forever,” Alexander croaked. 

 

“I-“ But John was cut off, he felt lips on his own, stealing his words and breath from him. Alexander twisted around in his arms, and took John’s head in his hands; he brought them closer together, his thumb tracing John’s cheekbone, stroking along his freckle speckled skin. John clung on to Alexander’s shoulders, drawing him in and deepening the kiss even as Alex drew away, the other man sighed in relief. Images of Alex sobbing and writhing on the bed as his life was taken from him flashed through John’s mind, and he clung on almost desperately trying to communicate his fear and love through his lips crushing Alexander’s. Old thoughts of fear and hate surfaced then, not to be ignored, but he did anyway; he pushed them aside and focussed on Alexander, his touch and his love. He tilted his head, in an effort to get even closer, their noses brushed and nearly bumped into each other, though Alex moved along with him. John knew his lips were cracked and chapped with the wind and dry air, but he didn't feel shame for it, Alexander’s though were warm and dry and comforting on his. His eyes closed as emotions he hadn't realised he could still feel bubbled up inside him and threatened to come forward in a stream of tears. He pulled Alexander forward, feeling Alex’s warm weight on his lap and his legs wrap around John’s waist, squeezing him tightly. John’s lungs began to burn with lack of air, he didn't want to break the kiss, he wanted to keep it going forever, but he was starting to get a little dizzy. He rested his forehead against Alexander’s looking deep in to the other’s eyes, he sighed, he could feel Alex’s warm breath against his cheek. 

 

“You don’t hate me?” Alexander whispered, tracing a hand over John’s face, stroking his baby hairs back from in front of his eyes.

 

“Quite the opposite,” John smiled, and pressed their lips together again, where they belonged. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, kudos and comments are my life; they keep me writing things. I'll admit that this took me longer to write than I thought, mainly because I lost a lot of motivation to write lams, but here I am back on this trash heap.


End file.
